Preflight Checklist

Behind the airlock door 

there is something keeping this rocketship safe 

Perhaps it is better left dead and unsaid 

perhaps I can teach my tongue to curl and figure eight

fancy and tight

or maybe this is a game of fetch

where your mother -

drunk

and babbly-

throws the steak knife

on the floor

and I bring her lilac breath mints,

flashing the smile I rehearsed 

during my vivisection lessons with the butcher. 

Holding Patterns

The pattern of the bathroom tile 

resembles the blanket 

you wrapped around your dollies 

when they took ill.

Martha, your favorite, had chicken pox

until the red crayon spots you inflicted on her

flaked off and faded away. 

You swaddled her tightly

and rocked her back and forth, 

singing your hush-a-byes.  

Her eyes frozen open.  

Her plastic body  

holding the heat of your folded arms.

You now understand 

how you rehearsed your futility

from such an early age. 

The cat can no longer stand.

She’s dying, the way old house cats do:

tongue paper dry, skin and fur 

sagging from the bone.

She’s chosen to curl up

next to the cool porcelain toilet base.

You bring her canned tuna 

and a water dish 

and swaddle her in your bathrobe.  

Her paws no longer holding heat

in your folded arms. 

County Lines Mean Nothing

The same sun that 
steal pigments from the billboards 
stretched along the freeway

blushes my cheeks, 

even in January,

when the salted roads crack

under black ice.